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"SCOTT PILGRIM!" bellows an all-too-familiar cheerful voice.
"Mrrrrr," says Scott eloquently, and he isn't awake enough to have any idea of what's about to happen, but he does know enough to yank the pillow over his head and hold it there with all of his strength.
There is a bang.
The door, he realizes fuzzily. Possibly -- hitting something?? Definitely opening really loudly. He really wishes it wasn't doing that. He should probably start locking it while he's sleeping.
"I thought your shit had supposedly been gotten together, guy," says someone, who flings himself down on the sofa that Scott uses for a bed, hard enough that the cushions bounce under both of them. "What are you doing asleep at 3:00 on a sunny Saturday afternoon?"
"Frrrrsleeping," Scott groans indignantly, and then Wallace plucks the pillow off his head and out of his arms. Scott tries to grab it back without opening his eyes, and his hands mostly just flail ineffectually against Wallace's jeans.
"Whoa there, tiger," Wallace drawls. "I have a boyfriend now; let's keep it PG." He drops the pillow on Scott's chest. If it's possible to drop a pillow with force, Wallace does it. "You know, considering that you're the all-time evil-ex-fighting champion and the best fighter in the greater Toronto metropolitan area, it was very easy to pull that away from you."
He gets up and Scott enjoys about four seconds of blissful hope that Wallace is going to leave him alone to sleep forever before there is an explosion.
Okay, it probably isn't an explosion. It's probably just Wallace yanking the curtains back. But it feels like an explosion.
Scott howls in agony and rifles his pillow somewhere in Wallace's general direction.
"Rise and shine!" Wallace sings and then he goes and starts making a lot of loud noise in Scott's kitchen.
Scott drags himself off the couch and into his bathroom, where he seriously contemplates falling asleep in the shower and weighs the gains of more rest against the risks of drowning. Wallace eventually decides the question for him by pounding on the door and hollering that if Scott doesn't hurry up, he's going to open the door and give himself an eyeful that neither of them is ready for.
"What," Scott finally says, once he and his drooping eyelids are sitting on the couch over a plate of bacon and eggs balanced on his lap, "are you doing here and how do I make you go away."
"I promised Rammy I'd make sure you occasionally saw sunlight and remembered to feed the cat while she was in Wisconsin," Wallace recites around a mouthful of bacon.
"Does she know you call her that," Scott mumbles. Then he frowns at his breakfast plate. "Hey, I fed Gideon the whole time she was off -- watching The X-Files and self-discovering and gallivanting."
"When was the last time you fed the cat, Scott," says Wallace.
"Um ... Tuesday?? Wednesday."
"That poor, poor pussy."
He grimaces. "It's weird when you call it that."
"Filthy," Wallace says, sounding vaguely approving as he feeds Gideon bacon bits out of his hand. "What's the matter with you, anyway? You're less coherent than your usual. Are you hungover?"
"I don't drink," Scott says, and then he remembers that he is self-aware and honest and stuff now, and he thinks about it. "--A lot. And I didn't drink anything last night. I just like sleeping. I work now; I have days off now. Sleeping is a thing ... that I do. On my day off."
"I think I was usually at work for this part of your day. Keep going," Wallace says, patting his head condescendingly. "I'm enjoying it."
"I'm really, really glad I don't live with you anymore," Scott says, but his traitorous enjoyment of his breakfast gives him away.
"You miss me." Wallace stretches out; he somehow seems to have found and also stolen the most comfortable spot on the couch. "Admit it. You have nights where you lie next to Ramona and you think that I was a better bed partner."
"No..." Scott says guiltily. "I don't. I definitely do not do that."
"Do you think she's changed her hair by now?"
Scott's brain makes a serious attempt to freak out, but mostly gets overheated and then feels like it's going to leak out his ears. "Get out," he says.
"Come on, guy, are you really kicking me out into the cold?"
"OUT," he demands, after a quick think reminds him that it's summer.
"Fine!" says Wallace. "I'll leave you to your very important afternoon of drooling on your couch cushions."
"Yeah, well--" Scott starts, already struggling, "you should - go and make out with your psychic boyfriend!!"
Wallace stands in the doorway and just looks at him for a minute. "Scott, I would just like you to know," he says, "that I will always be impressed by your witty comebacks."
"Shut up," Scott says, his face pressed into the back of the couch.
"They're amazing and I treasure each and every gem. Forever."
"Shut the door."
"I'm going to make a scrapbook devoted to them. I think your sister and Ramona probably need to contribute, too. Definitely Kim Pine."
"Wallace!!!" he hollers, though the effect is probably blunted by the fact that the couch muffles his voice.
"And by the way? I think I will go and make out with my psychic boyfriend." Wallace clicks his tongue, points finger-guns at him, and then pulls Scott's front door closed behind himself. He whistles a jaunty tune all the way down the stairs; Scott can hear him.
"I don't drool!" Scott yells.
"Mrow?" asks Gideon.
"Did I drink last night?" Scott asks the cat. "My eyelids feel like sandpaper and my tongue is heavy." He sticks his tongue out and makes a momentary concerted effort to see if there are visible signs of what is wrong with him.
"Mrow," says Gideon, and he jumps away toward the kitchen.
"Kitty," sighs Scott, letting himself crash down to the couch again, and he falls back asleep with the empty plate on his chest and his face mashed into the cushions.
It was, he will reflect later, a day well-spent.